


Slow Boat to China

by luxpermanet



Category: Political RPF, Political RPF - Philippine 21st c.
Genre: BasDro, Baste/Sandro - Relationship - Freeform, M/M, Other, RP69Fanfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-25
Updated: 2016-06-18
Packaged: 2018-06-10 12:10:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6955969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luxpermanet/pseuds/luxpermanet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It’s weird running into you like this,” Duterte remarked, his stoic expression morphing into something oddly sheepish. “Especially after all that happened …or, well, didn’t actually happen.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Sandro breathed. “It’ll pass. It shouldn’t bother me anymore than it does you.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. (Sandro 1 of 6): I Heard You Liked Ironies

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work of fiction, and not all of it should be taken as fact. Sebastian Duterte and Sandro Marcos are as real as real can be, and do not belong to me. I have gleaned some of my information from research, but I am likely to take my own liberties with certain matters. This was written for fun and feels alone; I make no profit from it whatsoever.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Astra inclinant, sed non obligant."
> 
> ("The stars incline us, they do not bind us.")

Five missed calls. Twelve unread text messages. Jake Ejercito was probably still pleading his let’s-go-out-and-party case, but Sandro Marcos was having none of it. He had just flown in from his London graduation ceremony, and he was dead tired. As much as he liked hanging out with Jake, the only party he was willing to attend right now was a private, silent one in his bed.

 

“I am going to sleep for the next three years and no one has the right to wake me,” he mumbled to himself, words muffled by the pillow over his face.

 

Jetlag was an evil, evil thing; Sandro suffered from it whenever he travelled trans-meridian distances, and it never failed to mess up his sleeping patterns. There was nothing more he wanted than to be able to drift off in peace, but he always ended up flat on his back, wide-awake and staring at the ceiling despite his exhaustion.

 

His phone began buzzing again. It was the _Care Bears_ theme, which he’d set as the default ringtone for Jake, as both the song and the person drove him slightly nuts. Exasperated, he reached for his phone and took the call.

 

“What the hell, Jake? It’s nearly one in the morning!”

 

“And when did that ever stop you from going out?” Jake retorted, sounding obscenely cheerful. “Get out of bed, Marcos. I got us a table at Valkyrie to celebrate your graduation.”

 

Sandro rolled his eyes. “Didn’t I tell you earlier that this could wait? I look and probably smell like _plane_ right now, okay?”

 

“Since when was that a big deal to you?” Jake shot back. “Aren’t you always excited for plane food?”

 

“I’m hanging up on you now, you dick,” said Sandro. “I’ll be in the country until September; we’ll have lots of time to eat, drink, and be merry.”

 

“Marcos, I’ve already parked out back,” Jake replied matter-of-factly. “If you value this friendship as much as I do, you will put on some cologne and hightail it out of there.”

 

Sandro sighed. His closest friends knew that guilt-tripping him into things was one of the quickest ways to his heart. Curse Jake for always finding ways to use his greatest weakness against him. “Fine, you win,” he groused. “Give me ten minutes. Let me just change into something more presentable.”

 

“Your timer starts now, Marcos.” Jake hung up.

 

It didn’t take Sandro too long to find a suitable change of clothes. He did end up skipping his usual mirror once-over; he was certain he looked like death warmed over, and there was little he could do to remedy that at the moment. After leaving his parents a short note—his little brother’s insane magnet collection did serve a purpose—he tiptoed out the back door and found an annoyingly fresh Jake Ejercito parked outside his house.

 

Jake snuffed out the cigarette he was smoking. “All hail the spoiled prince from the north!”

 

“You’re a butt and I hate you,” Sandro said dryly as he slipped into the front seat. “What’s so urgent that you came all the way to drag me out, anyway?”

 

“Brian and Paolo are waiting for us at Valkyrie, dude,” Jake replied. “It isn’t every day that our little Sands graduates from university, so I thought it’d be nice for us to have fun together—the fact that the elections are finally over is an added bonus.”

 

“Don’t remind me,” Sandro sighed. “I’m still super bummed about what happened to Dad in that final stretch, but I guess I’ll get over it soon enough.”

 

“You will,” Jake said kindly. “Stuff happens for a reason. Maybe we’ll all stop fighting now that this is over; the voters have spoken. We gotta live with what we got. Even if that means a certain boxer is in the Senate, and Serge Osmena is not.”

 

“Dude, I shaded _two_ circles for president,” Sandro muttered. “That was really dumb, and I have to live with that first-time voter booboo for the rest of my bloody life.”

 

“No one’s perfect, Marcos,” Jake said with a grin. “Not even a genius like you.”

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Sandro had always liked the atmosphere at Valkyrie. The music was often to his tastes, and so were the drinks and the people. Contrary to popular belief, good nightclubs were nice places to chill out at—well, in his case, anyway. His companions had been chatting away for the most of the night, but he’d zoned out for many a good part of the conversations.

 

“Earth to Sandro!” Brian Poe Llamanzares clapped a hand onto his shoulder. “Is everything okay? You’ve been spacing out a lot tonight.”

 

“I’m fine, man,” replied Sandro. “I’m just super tired from my flight. Don’t think of me as a party pooper, though; I really appreciate everyone coming out to celebrate with me.”

 

“Congratulations again, cuz,” Paolo Roxas said with a grin, reaching over to clink his glass against Sandro’s for a toast. “I’m sure your parents are really proud of you; your grades make me feel bad about mine, and I did pretty well in school!”

 

“Sandro Marcos and school are like, the one true pair or something,” Jake quipped. “He’s the only person I know who can ace every subject in existence, go clubbing on weekends, stay updated on all his favourite shows, and find time to reread all the Harry Potter books in a span of like, one to two months.”

 

“Which is why I’m always tired,” said Sandro. “Mum is so worried about me these days; I think I have her convinced that I’m going to collapse out of the blue someday.”

 

“You shouldn’t push yourself, though,” Paolo advised. “We knew you were tired, so we opted to get the skybox instead of the usual table close to the stage.”

 

“For this, I am actually grateful,” Sandro said with a chuckle. “I think we all need a bit of privacy, especially after the raunchy Twitterstorm that was RP69fanfic blew everything out of proportion.”

 

“Don’t remind me,” Brian groaned. “I needed brain bleach after checking out that hashtag. You guys are great friends and all, but I have no inclination whatsoever to do weird sexual things with you.”

 

“Seconded,” Paolo said. “You have to admit, some of the tweets were really clever and funny, though. I did feel kind of evil laughing about the ones that involved, uh, the incumbent VP’s son.”

 

“You can call him Junjun Binay, man,” said Jake. “We don’t have to be unfailingly polite in private.”

 

“It’s really interesting how our countrymen find such creative ways to cope with stress, though,” Brian remarked. “I stopped feeling too bothered about it after some time because it was all done for fun, and it’s not like anyone is profiting from it or claiming they own us, anyway—though it feels really weird knowing that girls want to own us and stuff.”

 

“We got off easy, though,” Jake pointed out. “Most of the tweets had poor Sandro here doing the do with Sebastian Duterte. That shit was wild as fuck, man.”

 

“Shut up, Jake,” Sandro glared at him. “For the record, my notifications were hell for like, two or three days. Everyone wanted to know how I felt about being Sebastian Duterte’s co-star in erotic fiction. I don’t even want to know how this all came to be.”

 

“You guys were the most popular pair,” Paolo teased. “From what I recall, there was even artwork going around, which was really crazy.”

 

“How _did_ you feel about being Sebastian Duterte’s co-star in erotic fiction?” Brian was trying very hard not to laugh. “Inquiring minds want to know.”

 

“What the actual fuck, Brian?” Sandro arched an eyebrow. “I was horrified, obviously. Never until this election did I realise that it was possible for Filipino netizens to see me in that light.”

 

“Chill out, bro,” said Jake. “We were only teasing. You gotta remember that you are among friends right now, and we all know you’re much more decent that what social media totes you out to be.”

 

“…did you read those tweets asking if Duterte gave Sandro those hickies?” Paolo asked. “No one even stopped to think they were scars. I found that bit really funny, too.”

 

Sandro rose from his seat. “Okay, fun’s over—I’m tired of feeling like the butt of the entire nation’s jokes. Before you guys go about discussing this even further, I shall dismiss myself from the room and check out what’s going on downstairs. See you all later.”

 

“Try not to kill someone with that death glare, Sands!” Jake called out after him. Sandro paused in his wake to flip his friend the bird.

 

The journey to the downstairs area wasn’t exactly peaceful. The elections had catapulted him to some odd form of stardom, and the RP69fanfic debacle hadn’t made the situation any easier. Sandro couldn’t help but wish that he’d opted to stay in London instead, but things were tense in his family right now, and the need to be close to them was greater. People had the tendency to get over things quickly, anyway; sooner or later, he’d be just another face in the crowd again.

 

“One Old Fashioned, please,” he requested once he’d reached the bar. “Make it a strong one.”

 

“Right away, sir,” was the bartender’s response.

 

Drink in hand, Sandro perched onto one of the empty stools. It was looking more and more like a good idea to stay put there and drink the dawn away; his friends were having a field day with RP69fanfic, and he really wasn’t in the mood to talk about something that embarrassed him to the bone.

 

He could hear what sounded like a gaggle of girls screeching over the music. It was a little irritating; he liked the song the DJ was currently playing, and the screams were distracting him. Annoyed, he left his seat and made his way to where the screeching was loudest, drunkenly determined to give whoever was making the noise a piece of his mind.

 

“Oh my god, it’s _Baste Duterte_ in the flesh!”

 

Sandro froze at the mention of the name. His mind began to race. The man was in Davao, was he not? All the reports said that the president-elect’s family was not going to move into Malacanan until the thirtieth of June, and the youngest son was often quoted saying that he preferred to stay in Davao. It seemed impossible that he was here right now, if one were to believe the ruckus that was going on at the moment.

 

“The world is fucking with me right now,” he muttered under his breath.

 

He watched the crowd part like the Red Sea. It wasn’t difficult to spot Sebastian Duterte, who moved among the people as if he owned the world. Sandro found it ironic; there was no swagger in the man’s stride, no air at all about him. He was both stunned and stumped by all this, and he could do nothing but look on, his feet seemingly rooted to the ground.

 

Duterte, of course, had noticed him almost immediately. Sandro assumed it was the staring that did him in. People tended to notice when one stared at them too much.

 

“Young Marcos,” the other man said politely, loud enough to be heard over the music.

 

“Duterte,” Sandro very nearly croaked. “This doesn’t seem like your kind of place.”

 

“It isn’t,” Duterte replied. “I just dropped by to check on something. Work-related things.”

 

“Oh.”

 

The whole thing was making him feel like an idiot, for some reason. Sandro didn’t know much about the other man. He’d checked out some of the articles that had been published online in the wake of the country’s sudden thirst for the president-elect’s son. Sebastian Duterte had revealed very little, though Sandro recalled that bit about him owning a junk shop. It didn’t exactly add up, though; liquor and music had nothing to do with junk shops. Now, if only the ground would be kind enough to swallow him whole.

 

“It’s weird running into you like this,” Duterte remarked, his stoic expression morphing into something oddly sheepish. “Especially after all that happened …or, well, didn’t actually happen.”

 

“Yeah,” Sandro breathed. “It’ll pass. It shouldn’t bother me anymore than it does you.”

 

Duterte smirked. “So you did some digging on me. I should be honoured.”

 

“Look, it’s not what you think.” Sandro was immediately on the defensive again. “All those tweets had you doing stuff to me, and I was freaking out because _holy fucking crap_. Shit like this doesn't happen all the time. So, don't even bother wondering why I wanted to do some research on the mystery man the Twitterverse is shipping me with!”

 

“Don’t be so loud; everyone’s going to stare.” Duterte paused to light himself a cigarette. “But if you want a second installment of RP69fanfic, then you’re free to be as loud as you want.”

 

“What the hell are you doing here talking to me about all this, anyway?” Sandro demanded. “I thought you were here for work or something.”

 

Duterte smiled sardonically. It didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I heard you liked ironies, kid. Here’s one for the books: the work-related thing I’m here for? Is _you_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DUN DUN DUN. First off, I'd like to address the language situation. I thought about staying true to life by making them speak a mix of English, Filipino, and their dialects. I thought about it really hard. But I wanted it to be easier to read, so I decided to write everything in English. 
> 
> Let's use the Game of Thrones logic: Just think of it as everyone speaking in the Common Tongue. Imagine how hard it'd be if I had Sandro injecting High Valyrian and Baste injecting Dothraki into all these talk-heavy situations.


	2. (Sandro 2 of 6): People Aren’t Exactly Fond of Us These Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Acta est fabula, plaudite.” – Augustus Caesar
> 
> (“The drama has been acted out, applaud.”)

“Oh my god. I’m going to die. I’m going to die and no one’s going to find my body.”

 

“Chill out for just one second, won’t you?”

 

“I can’t! I’m nursing the worst hangover in existence. And you’re fucking with me.”

 

“You’ll be fine. You’re puking into your own toilet.”

 

“Fuck you, Sebastian Duterte.”

 

Sandro pushed himself away from the toilet bowl, slumping gracelessly onto the bathroom tile. He drunk himself to near death that morning, and would have probably never made it home had Duterte not forcibly intervened. There was very little he could actually remember from the last couple of hours; all he knew was that he had probably made a bit of a scene.

 

“Is there anything about this making the rounds on social media?” he managed to rasp out. “Because if there is, my dad is going to ground me for the rest of my life.”

 

“No one witnessed your drunken tantrum,” Duterte replied. “I had to knock you out so you’d shut up. Can’t promise that people won’t be talking about us, though—I did have to carry you to Ejercito’s car. Your friends were worried about you, by the way.”

 

“I’ll call them later.” Sandro managed to drag himself up to a sitting position. “The first order of business is to speak to my parents—I don’t need a babysitter.”

 

His last coherent memory of the night involved Duterte admitting that Sandro’s parents had hired him to serve as their son’s bodyguard for the duration of his stay in Manila. It had hurt him more than angered him; he was often very careful about how he conducted himself in public, and never really flipped out unless he was deeply affected by something. There was a certain pride that came with the fact that his parents trusted him, and to have that negated by the sudden presence of a bodyguard—the president-elect’s son, no less—felt like a slap on the face.

 

He glared at Duterte, who looked like some alternate universe version of himself thanks to the Valkyrie-appropriate clothes he was wearing. “Aren’t you supposed to be like, surfing in Davao or something? I thought you didn’t like it here.”

 

Duterte shrugged. “It’s not my favourite place in the world, but a job’s a job. Our dads are pretty good friends, and Digong Duterte doesn’t have it in him to turn down a request from Bongbong Marcos. He ordered me to go and do it—who am I to disobey my old man?”

 

Sandro brushed past the other man and made his way to the kitchen for a glass of water. He was really going to need three hundred years’ worth of sleep thanks to all this unwarranted stress.

 

“Do you want anything?” he called over his shoulder. “It’s the least I can do to thank you for dragging my corpse back home.”

 

“I’m fine,” Duterte replied. “I should be leaving soon, anyway. There’s a shit ton of stuff I have to take care of before I start stalking you full-time.”

 

“That’s super gross, Duterte!” Sandro glared at him. “I demand a right to my privacy.”

 

“He won’t be tailing you everywhere, Alexandro—only in densely populated places. I can’t be too careful knowing that people aren’t exactly fond of us these days.”

 

Bongbong Marcos strode into the kitchen, already dressed for work. Seeing his father caused a lump to form in Sandro’s throat. Bongbong had lost the bid for the vice presidency, and his Senate term was due to expire when the new administration would take office. 

 

Duterte extended a hand in greeting. “Senator Marcos. I was just about to leave—as you can see, my charge is now able to stand unaided. I could, uh, escort you somewhere, if you like.”

 

“Thank you, Sebastian,” Bongbong replied. “But I’ll be alright. I’ve been living with this for years. I hired you to look after my son, and I need you to keep him safe.”

 

Sandro cleared his throat. “Have a good day at work, Dad. I’ll see you later.”

 

“Try not to worry your mum too much, alright?” Bongbong asked. “I know you’re enjoying all this newfound independence, but self-control is very important.”

 

“…which he needs to work on,” Sandro heard Duterte mutter under his breath.

 

“Hey!” he exclaimed. “I was doing just fine until _you_ barged in, thank you very much.”  

 

An alarmed expression graced Bongbong’s face. “Alexandro—”

 

“Don’t even get me started on this guy, Dad!” Sandro cried. “He’s done nothing but pick on me since last night! Do you know he carried me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes? One of these days, I’m going to wind up dead due to secondhand embarrassment because of how he treats me!”

 

“I’m sorry, Sebastian,” Bongbong turned to the perplexed Duterte. “I guess I neglected to tell you that my eldest son is more like his grandmother than I thought, especially when he’s angry.”

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Sandro saw very little of Duterte in the following days, which put him in high spirits. There were a couple of tweets from the people who had seen them together—most of which were basically harmless as they were simply delighted squeals from fans. There were a couple that went to RP69fanfic territory, though, which had freaked Sandro out a bit. Never again would he be able to sit at Valkyrie’s bar without remembering the 140-character fictional accounts of how Sebastian Duterte had his sweet, sweet way with him. One of these days, he was going to develop and sell actual brain bleach as a means of combating undesirable tweets.

 

“You’re avoiding him by staying cooped up in your house,” Jake was saying over the phone. “This is the part where I risk hurting your feelings by saying how stupid this is, Marcos. You can’t stay indoors until the day you have to leave for England—you’ll drop dead due to lack of clubbing.”

 

“Geez, thanks for the vote of confidence, Jake,” Sandro scowled. “I don’t even know why I call you to talk about my fucking feelings anymore.”

 

“Because I tell it like it is, little Sandro,” Jake replied. “And what I think you should do is actually live your life. You’ll only have to put up with Duterte’s babysitting for three months. It won’t seem like a such long time if you keep yourself occupied. Besides, he’s not that bad. He really looked out for you when you drunk yourself into a stupor at Valkyrie.”

 

Sandro sighed. “It feels so weird knowing I have an actual bodyguard looking after me. Imagine, the president-elect’s son agreeing to take on a senator’s son as some sort of charity case. Stuff like this only ever happens in movies!” 

 

“Be careful what you say, Marcos,” Jake said teasingly. “In movies like this, the guardian and the ward usually end up falling in love.”

 

“Ugh, you’re so gross!” Sandro exclaimed. “I would sooner die than fall in love with Sebastian Duterte! I mean, the dude is such a dick. He picks on me too much!”

 

“I was only joking, man,” said Jake. “But given that I’ve gotten ahold of you, I would like to use this opportunity to invite you to the Palace Pool Club tonight. It’s been over a week since we’ve seen you, and the guys need proof that you’re still alive.”

 

“I’m probably gonna have to bring Duterte, though,” Sandro grumbled. “My parents still aren’t too keen on me going out ever since I puked all over the guest bathroom floor.”

 

“That shouldn’t be a problem,” Jake said. “Knowing him, he’s probably just going to stand in a corner and glare at everyone. I guess he’ll be keeping you in check, too.”

 

“Fine, I’ll show up,” Sandro said with a resigned sigh. “Make sure you include Duterte among the numbers when you reserve our table. I’m sure he’ll wander off at some point out of sheer disinterest, but Mum won’t appreciate me straying more than a foot away from him or something.”

 

“Will do, bud,” Jake chirped. “See you later.”

 

Sandro scrolled through his contacts in search of Duterte’s number. He tapped the call option almost immediately, afraid he would chicken out should he opt to hesitate. If he was lucky, perhaps Duterte wouldn’t even be anywhere near his phone.

 

“In need of a knight in shining armour, I see.”

 

Sandro rolled his eyes. Of course he would pick up on the first ring. “So, there’s going to be this party at the Palace Pool Club tonight, and I want to go. Come pick me up at midnight; my parents will think I’m running off if we don’t leave together. Oh, casual wear is fine; you won’t have to dress up like the Earth-2 version of yourself.”

 

“Earth-2?”

 

“Sorry. It’s a _Flash_ reference. I’m basically a comic nerd.”  

 

“Right.” Duterte sounded amused. “Well, you’d better be ready by the time I get to you. I’m not the type to wait for my dates while they preen in front of their mirrors.”

 

“I am _not_ your date,” Sandro scowled. “And I don’t roll out of bed looking like a glorious mess so you’re going to have to wait for me a little longer."

 

"Gonna get yourself some girls, brat?"

 

"Ugh. No."

 

"Boys, then?"

 

"No!"

 

"I figured. You have the sex appeal of an angry chipmunk."

 

"You know nothing, Sebastian Duterte. I am a smart, strong, sensual person! Bye."

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

The goings-on at the Palace Pool Club were often five parts ordinary, three parts fantastic, and two parts horrifying. Sandro found the concept very nice; he’d been to similar places during his travels, and thought it was nice that the pool club culture could be carried over to the Philippine setting. What the club goers did in the pool, however, were sometimes pretty questionable.

 

“So, what’s the water done to you this time, Sandro?” Brian teased. “You’ve been frowning at it for minutes now. Are you developing a super power we’re not aware of?”

 

“I’m just trying not to think about how gross it could be while actually thinking about how gross it could be.” Sandro frowned. “Does that make sense?”

 

“Kind of, yeah,” said Paolo. “Thankfully, the idea of sharing a pool with a bunch of warm bodies I don’t recognize doesn’t appeal to me at all.”

 

“You know what does appeal to all these people?” Jake asked. “Baste Duterte. Look over there; he’s standing at the bar doing nothing, yet all the girls and the gay dudes are trying to chat him up. How the fuck does that happen? I need me some pointers.”

 

Sandro rolled his eyes. Duterte had excused himself from their company as soon as they’d arrived on the premise that people would be likely to spread more rumors about them. He was starting to get annoyed by all this; at the rate things were going, he would probably end up spontaneously combusting before September came along.

 

“I heard he has a girlfriend back in Davao,” said Brian. “For the most loyal of men, that’s more than enough reason not to fall into the grabby hands of rabid fangirls.”

 

“Honestly? I don’t get the appeal,” Sandro sighed. “He always seems like he goes out wearing yesterday’s jeans, the shirt that’s on the very top of the pile, and whatever pair of shoes he spies first. Also, he probably doesn’t brush his hair.”

 

“I think you just described his so-called appeal, Sandro,” Paolo pointed out. “Some girls—well, and gay men—are really into the burly, brawny type of masculinity. I once got rejected by a girl because she found me too clean-looking. It just so happens that the Philippines is really into the Sebastian Duterte look right now. It won’t last forever, if that makes you feel better.”

 

“Yeah, well, whatever. I’m gonna go over there and …I’m gonna over there.”

 

“Your brain’s fried, Marcos,” Jake laughed. “Also, your mood swings are more intense than my sisters’, and I have a lot of them!”

 

Sandro ignored the friendly jibe and made his way through the throng of people to where Duterte was stationed. The man was surprisingly civil to his horde of fangirls, gamely exchanging polite hellos, and even posing for a few photos. Sandro found himself feeling irked by the theatrics, for some reason.

 

“Aren’t you supposed to be looking after _me_?” he demanded, annoyed.

 

He didn’t realise how foolish of a move it was until some of the girls turned to him while making annoying cow eyes. By saying what he did, he’d basically staked some sort of claim on Sebastian Duterte without actually meaning to.

 

“Dig your own grave, why don’t you?” Duterte sighed. He grabbed Sandro by the wrist and proceeded to drag him away, much to the shock (and probable delight) of the fangirl horde. “Come along now; I should take you somewhere else before that mouth gets you into any more trouble.”

 

“Don’t grab me so tightly!” Sandro exclaimed. “I can walk on my own, you know!”

 

His protests went unheeded. Instead, Sandro found himself being manhandled into an empty bathroom stall, which was all sorts of humiliating and probably the biggest trigger of do-not-want feelings that Sandro had ever encountered in his life.

 

“You need to behave!” Duterte hissed. “There is a reason your parents hired someone to look after you, little brat. When you’re out and about in places like this, it’s easy to get hurt.”

 

Sandro scowled. “Then I demand to know what the heck is going on! I’ve been trying to ask my parents why they got me a bodyguard, but they never go into the specifics. I’m sick and tired of being in the dark, and you’re probably the only person who can give me a straight answer!”

 

“Look, this probably isn’t the right time or place to have this discussion,” Duterte said. “I still think your parents should be the one to talk to you about this as it concerns your family. I’m just an outsider doing his job.”

 

“Fine.” Sandro practically kicked down the stall door. “Don’t talk to me, then! Let’s just forget about this whole goddamn thing. I want to go home—”

 

His tirade was interrupted by the sound of his ringing phone. Seeing that it was his mother on the other end, he quickly picked up the call. “Hey, Mum. Is everything okay?”

 

“You need to come home immediately, Sandro. Your father’s been shot.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ..I need to stop leaving you guys with endings like these.
> 
> But seriously. Thank you so much for reading, commenting, and tweeting me! I'm a bit overwhelmed by the reception because it's a small niche fandom, and no one outside RP69fanfic gets the charm. It's rewarding having this mini support system (especially on Twitter); you guys are really sweet and fun. The next update will probably be mid next week, unless I get hit with a sudden dose of inspiration earlier on. 
> 
> Come at me: @rootedinvanity.


	3. (Sandro 3 of 6): Yes, Daddy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Malum quidem nullum esse sine aliquo bono.” – Pliny
> 
> (“There is, to be sure, no evil without something good.”)

Sandro was all of seven years old again, curled up like a small child on the sofa in the waiting area, his head pillowed on his mother’s lap. His brothers, both away on summer trips, had been adamant about coming home. Fearing for her sons’ safety, Liza Marcos had dissuaded them from doing so. Sandro couldn’t help but wish that they’d forced the issue; Simon and Vincent would have been a bigger help to their mum in this situation—they had always been much calmer than he ever would be. When he’d gotten off the phone with his mum, he had simply clammed up. Had it not been for Duterte—who had somehow gotten him to function—Sandro would have probably passed out due to shock. The president-elect’s son had been kind enough to drive him to the hospital and escort him to meet his family. He’d excused himself shortly after, not wanting to interfere with private family matters. Sandro was a bit relieved that the other man hadn’t been around to see him bawl into his mother’s shoulder.

 

Bongbong Marcos had been shot in the shoulder by an unknown assailant on his way to the office earlier that morning. The bullet had lodged itself into his shoulder; the surgeons were able to extract it cleanly as it had not shattered. They had also been able to operate on the damaged tissue, but the senator would still have to go through the healing process and physical therapy if deemed necessary along the way. As he had been bracing himself for the worst, Sandro was relieved at the turnout of events. However, he couldn’t help but think of the incident as an omen for worse things to come.

 

His father peered at him from across the room. “You haven’t eaten anything all afternoon, Sandro,” the senator remarked. “You need to look after yourself; we’ll be of no help to your mother should both of us end up confined here.”

 

“I’m not hungry, Dad,” Sandro muttered. “I’m still full from the coffee I had earlier.”

 

“Your father’s right, sweetheart,” Liza sighed, ruffling her son’s hair in a soothing gesture. “I know you haven’t been feeling well the past few days because of what happened, but you need to eat. Besides, your dad is doing much better now.”

 

Annoyed, Sandro pulled himself up to a sitting position. “But what if it happens again? It could, you know—we’ve made a lot of enemies. And what if they choose to go after the rest of us? Mum, Simon, Vincent, Granny, Aunt Imee, Aunt Irene? It’s bound to happen.”

 

Bongbong sighed. “You’re right, Sandro. It could, and I won’t deny that. This is why I’ve been taking precautions. We believe your brothers will be safe for as long as they’re outside the country.”

 

“And me?” Sandro asked. “Is this why you have Sebastian Duterte looking after me?”

 

“It was simply a precautionary method,” Bongbong replied. “At least it was in the beginning. But now that this has happened, it’s become a full-blown security measure. I’ve spoken to him, and he has agreed to take you somewhere safe.”

 

“You can’t just send me away!” Sandro exclaimed. “This is why I stayed in the first place—to be with you guys and to help out! What if something happens while I’m away?”

 

“And what would you be able to do?” Bongbong asked. “You’re not a superhero, son. You can’t let your emotions override your ability to see reason because that is what will get you killed. Given the present circumstances, you would only be in more danger if we let you stay here going about your usual routine. You are far too easy to tail, Sandro.”

 

“Your father is right,” Liza said softly. “You’ve been blessed with a good heart, and that is one of your best traits. I don’t want you to end up hurt because of it.”

 

Sandro knew it was time to stop arguing. He’d never had it in him to fight his mother, especially when she was so clearly worried about him. He swallowed, feeling nervous. “I’m not agreeing with this, but I will obey you because you are my parents, and I want to trust you. Allow me this one question, though: of all people, why would you choose Sebastian Duterte?”

 

“There are a lot of things people don’t know about Rodrigo Duterte’s son,” Bongbong replied. “I approached him for advice on how to go about hiring the best possible security detail, and he recommended his son straight off the bat.”

 

Come to think about it, Duterte had behaved like a consummate professional throughout the whole mess. He’d always seemed to know what to do from the get-go, which bothered Sandro a bit. When he’d brought it up with Jake, the latter had made jokes about how the Davao Death Squad was actually the League of Assassins, and that Rodrigo Duterte had secretly trained his son to become Batman. He’d laughed it off then, but it didn’t seem so funny now.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

He was really beginning to hate all the waiting that came with being Sebastian Duterte’s ward. Sandro had personally called him up after he’d spoken to his father in the hospital, but Duterte only said that he needed to be ready anytime and that he would come for Sandro when the time was right. It had been almost a week since that phone call, and he’d heard nothing from Duterte.

 

“He’s basically the living embodiment of all my pet peeves!” he exclaimed. “I don’t know why he can’t even set appointments properly. I mean, I can’t just sit here waiting for him to kidnap me—what if he shows up while I’m in the bath? I doubt he’d even let me finish.”

 

Paolo yawned on the other end of the line. “Your imagination is running on overdrive again, Sandro. Though I have to admit, this little escapade has me somewhat concerned. I’m sure your dad has your best interests at heart, but is it right to hand your son off to some guy you barely even know?”

 

“I don’t know, man,” Sandro confessed. “I’m still in the dark about the specifics, but I’d like to think I can trust my dad. Even Mum thought that this was the best solution to the, uh, problem—if we can even call it that. I hate seeing them stressed out, though, so if this so-called excursion with Duterte makes them feel better, then I’ll go along with it.”

 

“Jake could be right about him having trained with the Davao Death Squad,” Paolo remarked. “Then again, it’s so hard to make assumptions because we don’t know much about the man and the group. I could probably do some more digging into this, but I don’t want my dad finding out.”

 

“You shouldn’t,” Sandro said firmly. “This is my family’s cross to bear, and I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself if any of you guys wind up in danger because of me. Besides, Duterte seems like an okay person. I hate almost everything about him, but he hasn’t gotten me killed. Also, I need to properly thank him for getting me to the hospital in time to wait out Dad’s surgery with the family.”

 

“My dad sends his regards, by the way,” Paolo said. “Please tell Aunt Liza that he wants to have coffee with her once your dad comes home from the hospital.”

 

“Do pass my thanks on to Uncle Mar,” replied Sandro. “I’m sure Mum will appreciate company from family. She’s been really stressed out by this incident.”

 

“You need to look out for yourself, too, cuz,” Paolo added. “If you can call or text us every so often just so we know you’re alright, that would be much appreciated.”

 

“Oh, you know me,” Sandro laughed. “I can never stay away from you guys for too long—especially if I’m to be in the company of one Sebastian Duterte for an extended period of time.”

 

“Good night then, Sandro.”

 

“Likewise, cuz. Sorry for keeping you up.”

 

Sandro ended the call and flopped back onto his bed, feeling absolutely out of sorts. His life had never been ordinary given his family’s grim history, but he’d never expected that he’d ever lead the life of a fugitive on the run. All he’d really wanted to do while on vacation was to get some DJ gigs, but his dad was determined to keep him out of the public eye until his eventual return to London.

 

“This is all turning out to become one big nightmare,” he muttered under his breath.

 

Sandro was just about to drift off when his ears picked up the telltale sound of a door unlocking. He debated running across the room to search for something to defend himself with, but quickly decided against it as it would give the intruder plenty of room to attack him. He lay on his side instead, hoping and praying that he could use the element of surprise to his advantage.

 

The shuffling sounds were a clear indicator that the intruder was advancing towards him. A wave of dread crept over Sandro when he felt the other person stop at his bedside. Taking action, he leapt from the bed and tackled the intruder, sending them both toppling to the floor. The man grunted in response, but made no effort to subdue him.

 

“Thanks for the hug hello, brat.”

 

“Duterte?” Sandro couldn’t help but exclaim. He raised his phone up, using the backlight to reveal the man’s nonplussed face. “What the hell were you doing sneaking up on me in the middle of the night? That was a genuine creep move, you jerk.”

 

“Your entire household was asleep, so I thought I’d let myself in,” Duterte replied. “Your parents don’t live by the cliché of keeping the spare key under the doormat or in an empty flower pot, but your locks are incredibly easy to pick. Your bedroom door took me under a minute to deal with.”

 

“My parents aren’t even here!” Sandro hissed. “This is breaking and entering _and_ kidnapping!”

 

Duterte hummed. “You know, I like how we’re having this conversation with you on top of me and my hands on your ass. It’s a very nice one, too—firm and a bit bouncy—given that you seem to be tiny everywhere else.”

 

Sandro let out an indignant little squeak as he pushed himself off Duterte’s prone form. It was annoying how the man could be as cool as a cucumber at a time like this. “What the fuck are you doing here, anyway? I’m sure it wasn’t to grope me in my sleep! Because that’s …bad. Like, _super_.”

 

“Don’t flatter yourself, brat,” Duterte said nonchalantly as he got to his feet. “You may have a pretty face, but your attitude is something that’d have me walking out the door in five seconds flat under ordinary circumstances. I’m actually here to pick you up. We leave tonight.”

 

“I should have expected you to just come barrelling in at your leisure.” Sandro rolled his eyes. “Also, would it have killed you to give me a heads-up? I would have wanted my parents to be here.”

 

“That ain’t the way shit like this works, kid,” Duterte said through gritted teeth. “Your dad and I, we had an agreement. No one is supposed to know where I’m taking you—not your friends, not your family, not even your parents. You know why? Knowing something can make them susceptible. People get tortured into submission to get them to reveal things. This is why it’s best to keep them in the dark. Heck, this should all be familiar to you; your grandfather certainly had a grand time doing that back then.”

 

“That’s not fair!” Sandro blurted out. “You don’t get to talk to me about what my family has done—not when your father has been hiring hitmen to shoot people down. For all I know, you’ve been taught how to behave the very same way!”

 

They glared at each other for what felt like centuries. Finally, Duterte broke away from the staring contest, looking surprisingly contrite. “You know what? You’re right. Let’s consider these topics taboo and move on. We’ve got a great deal to do tonight.”

 

“What should I take with me?” Sandro asked.

 

“Basic things like clothes, money, and identification,” Duterte replied. “Don’t bring too much; you won’t want to be struggling with something heavy should we have to move again. Also, you’re forbidden from bringing your phone and your laptop with you—location services may very well become our undoing should someone be after your head.”

 

“This is just the worst,” Sandro grumbled as he began stuffing clothes into a backpack. “What am I going to use to communicate with you just in case we get separated, then?”

 

Duterte tossed a new iPhone and a prepaid SIM card his way. “Only for calls and texts, no social media.”

 

“Yes, Daddy,” said Sandro mockingly.

 

“Oh god, don’t call me that,” Duterte groaned. “I’ll take swear words over ‘daddy’ any fucking day.”

 

“Suit yourself, bastard.” Sandro swung his backpack over his shoulder, stopping to check that that straps were snug before turning expectantly to Duterte. “Where to now?”

 

“I can’t tell you where we’ll be going just yet,” Duterte replied. “But I do hope you enjoy long car rides, because that is what we’ll be doing for most of tonight. I’ll be doing the driving, so you won’t have to worry about a thing.”

 

“Yeah, except probably my own well-being,” Sandro muttered. “We’ll be good as long as you keep your hands to yourself, Duterte.”

 

Duterte smirked. The very sight of it unnerved Sandro; he knew many found the man incredibly attractive, and he could very well see why. Sour personality aside—and from a purely objective standpoint—Duterte had a roguish bad boy charm that was sort of sexy. He swallowed nervously when Duterte leaned in close, unable to move away.

 

“Well, _you_ tackled me to the floor, little chipmunk,” he said teasingly. “I was only going with the flow.”

 

Sandro was going to kill him when they arrived at their destination.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And things are finally moving along! Sandro is still as stubborn as heck, but at least we now know that he isn't immune to Baste's appeal despite everything he's been saying for the past three chapters. And now that they're ~stuck~ together, I can work on really exploring their relationship. 
> 
> I hope you liked this chapter; I didn't think I would be able to finish another one so quickly. Thanks, as usual, to everyone who reads, comments, and tweets. Y'all are ace. I approve so hard. 
> 
> PS Jake is right; Baste is Batman. Lol.


	4. (Sandro 4 of 6): First of His Name and Lord of Harmless Flirting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Fluctuat nec mergitur."
> 
> ("It is tossed by the waves but it does not sink.")

He had been on plenty of roadtrips before, most of them with his friends or family (sometimes, both) in tow. Sandro liked long car rides; he preferred them to long-haul flights, even. There were always nice things to look at when they took the scenic route, and the open roads gave him a feeling of absolute freedom. Tonight was different, though—he was in the passenger seat of a car whose owner and driver he barely knew, and the road ahead was dark and probably full of terrors.

 

“We’re going somewhere up north, aren’t we?” he asked. “I’m very familiar with this route; we often take it when my family chooses to drive to Ilocos.”

 

“No private jet or chopper?” Duterte asked. “You don’t seem like the type to take the long route.”

 

“We fly when Dad is running on a tight schedule for work,” Sandro replied. “The campaign actually made me really sick of flying since we were always in a rush thanks to all those engagements. I don’t enjoy it as much as I used to because of that. Also, I really like travelling by land—there’s so much to see.”

 

“Probably not right now, though.” Duterte gestured to the windshield with one hand. “It’s dark as fuck outside.”

 

“You’re such a party pooper, Duterte.” Sandro rolled his eyes. “Would it kill you to be pleasant about some things from time to time? We’re going to be spending a lengthy amount of time with each other, and I don’t really want to be stuck with someone who does nothing but brood.”

 

“There’s a lot I don’t tell people about myself, Sandro Marcos,” Duterte replied. “The Baste my acquaintances know is a façade; the one my close friends and family know is the real deal.”

 

“I’ll figure you out,” Sandro quipped. “I like mysteries, and I’m very good at solving them.”

 

“Keep telling yourself that, kid,” Duterte said dryly. “I don’t give anything away unless I really mean it.”

 

“It’s really unfair, though,” Sandro whined. “You probably know everything there is to know about me—secret agents get like, a file on their wards—but I don’t know anything about you.”

 

“You seem to know the basics by heart,” Duterte pointed out. “I know you’ve been reading those articles.”

 

“Well, I’m never satisfied with just the basics,” Sandro argued. “I like knowing the deeper stuff—what makes you sad, what pisses you off, what you would do if you could do anything in the world.”

 

“That’s a lot to ask for, isn’t it?” Duterte raised an eyebrow. “Will you be content knowing that I live in Davao and that I have two children?”

 

“I can Google those things, Duterte,” Sandro scoffed. “Just you wait—I’m going to get you to tell me everything.”

 

“And what purpose would a 101 on Sebastian Duterte serve?”

 

“Personal satisfaction for Sandro Marcos.”

 

Duterte laughed. Sandro fidgeted in his seat at the very sound of it—low, husky, and a little sweet. “You’re a clever one, you little chipmunk. That was actually a damn good comeback.”

 

“I did very well in debates at school,” Sandro muttered, feeling his cheeks heat up. “As you probably know by now, I always have a lot of things to say.”

 

“Which is probably why we’ve been able to keep this conversation going beyond my normal capacity.” Duterte fished out what looked like a pamphlet of sorts and handed it over. “Ever been to Baler?”

 

Sandro blinked. “Won’t your horde of fangirls find us there? Everyone knows you like to go out and surf; we’ll end up all over social media thanks to the creeps who can't resist taking photos. You'll bring the BasDro hashtag or whatever their preferred portmanteau for us is back to life."

 

“That’s definitely a possibility, but we won’t be staying in Baler for too long,” Duterte replied. “The primary goal was to get you out of Manila, and it was the first place I’d thought of.”

 

“Okay, then,” Sandro agreed. “But why are you telling me all this? I thought I wasn’t supposed to know any of the specifics—just in case knowledge makes me susceptible to …things.”  

 

“You’re trusting me with your life here, albeit reluctantly,” Duterte said. “It’s only fair that I repay that trust by being honest with you. I still think you’re a brat, but this might just work out in the end.”

 

“Good,” Sandro said cheerfully. “And if we’re going to work together, we should start calling each other by our first names. Everybody calls me Sandro; you can call me that, too.”

 

Duterte smirked. “I think I’ll stick to chipmunk as it suits you perfectly. You’re welcome to call me Baste, though. In fact, I prefer that because using just my last name reminds me of my dad.”

 

“Can I call you Seb instead?” Sandro frowned. “My funny accent is too prominent, and I might just pronounce your name wrong all the time. At least Seb is something I can say right.”

 

“Suit yourself,” Seb replied nonchalantly. “To you, I’ve been a jerk, a bastard, a creep, a dick, and a fucker. I’ve been chill with everything so far, so an actual name should be a nice gesture.”  

 

Sandro smiled sweetly. “Oh, I’ll be good, Seb. I’ll be the best partner-in-crime you’ve ever had.”

  

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

It was around seven in the morning by the time they’d reached Baler. Sandro had dozed off a couple of times in the car, but his naps had been far and few in between. Seb, of course, was a little worse for the wear, having driven all the way without stopping. Sandro had offered to take the wheel a couple of times, but Seb declined each time, insisting he try to get some rest. He’d spent most of the trip staring out the window, watching carefully as the sky lightened from a moonlit black to the faint purples and pinks of sunrise.

 

“You okay, chipmunk?” Seb asked as soon as he’d parked the car. “A friend of mine owns this place, and I made prior arrangements with him regarding our stay. I have duplicates of a key to a particular room on the top floor, so you can go on up without having to sign any documentation. Now, I need to have a little chat with my friend before settling in—can I trust you to make your way to the room on your own without being seen?”

 

Sandro reached into his backpack and dug out a baseball cap, making sure to wear the brim low over his face as so not to be recognized. “Am I anonymous enough for you now?”

 

“After watching you all this time, I think I’d recognise you anywhere, chipmunk,” said Seb dryly. “But to the general public, this will probably pass. I doubt anyone would think to look for Sandro Marcos in Baler, of all places. Head straight for the room and try not to make eye contact.”

 

“Aye-aye, captain,” Sandro chirped. “And if anyone dares to come grab me, I’ll just scream your name really loudly or something equally scandalous.”

 

“Do me a favour and don’t, alright?” Seb grunted. “Though I should know by now you’re only being extra dramatic to fuck with me or something.”

 

“Yes and no,” Sandro replied. “Anyway, I’ll see you later—you shouldn’t take too long, right?”

 

“Don’t worry; I never linger longer than necessary. Be careful, chipmunk.”

 

Sandro swung his backpack over his shoulders and made his way to the stairwell, which would lead him to their room on the third floor. Despite the circumstances, he was beginning to feel less apprehensive about the whole thing. It helped a lot that Seb seemed to be very prepared; that alone gave Sandro a much-needed boost of confidence. It also pleased him that the halls of the inn were relatively clear. Based on his experience, people were either asleep or out having breakfast at such a time.

 

“Of course his secret lair is all the way at the end of the hall,” he muttered under his breath as he cross-checked the signs with the number indicated on his copy of the key. “I swear to god that my entire existence has been manipulated to fit some sort of a political thriller plot.”

 

Relief flooded into his small frame when he’d managed to get the door open. The room was nowhere near as grand as the accommodations he had grown used used to, but it was clean and it smelt okay, and that was really all that mattered to him. After depositing his things into the closet and poking around a bit, he walked straight to the windows to catch a glimpse of the stunning ocean view. He wasn’t a beach person at all, but the sight of a clear blue ocean never failed to bring him a sense of peace.

 

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

 

“Jesus Christ, Seb! Don’t scare me like this!” Sandro exclaimed. “I think I just felt my heart leap into my throat or something …how did you manage to get in so quietly?”

 

“I learnt a few ninja moves along the way,” replied the other man. “I’m fucking tired; I’m going to hit the hay as soon as I shower. You go on ahead and take the bed—I’m perfectly happy on the sofa.”

 

Feeling exhaustion seep into his bones, Sandro kicked off his slippers—he’d left home in his pyjamas, which was all sorts of embarrassing because he’d chosen a matching plaid pair—and crawled underneath the sheets. He peeked out and stared at the sofa, wondering how on earth Seb was going to get comfortable on it when it looked absolutely horrible for sleeping. Curious, he got out of bed and went over to test it, scowling when he felt the rickety wooden frame dig into his butt through the crappy thin cushioning.

 

“This is not going to work,” he said out loud. “I don’t think even a corpse could rest on this thing.”

 

He heard the shower running, which meant that Seb must have gotten in already. The man probably used the room a lot when he was here in Baler; Sandro couldn’t help but feel that he was robbing him of his own bed by just being here in the first place. The least he could do was find a way to make the stupid couch more comfortable, which was proving to be difficult given the lack of a mall in the vicinity.

 

“What nefarious things has that couch done to you in the two minutes that I was in the shower?” he heard Seb ask from behind him. “You’re glaring at it as if it killed someone you love.”

 

“Have you ever even sat on this thing in your life?” Sandro demanded. “I just did, and it’s an experience I never want to repeat again. You’re not going to be able to sleep on this, Seb.”

 

“Didn’t know you cared that much about my welfare. I’m touched.”

 

Sandro whirled around to face him. “I’m not that unkind—oh _seven hells_.”

 

He couldn’t help himself; he really couldn’t. Some of Sebastian Duterte’s most popular Google-able photos were of him shirtless, which was normal given that he liked surfing and all. And it wasn’t like Sandro had never seen people shirtless before; his cousin and some of his friends modelled, and Sandro was sick and tired of seeing them walking around without their shirts on because they did it almost all the time to impress girls or something. Seb wasn’t built like a Greek god with a twelve-pack or something equally horrendous, but he was broad and strong and really fucking badass that it hurt to look at him.

 

“I, uh, like your tattoos?” he blurted out lamely.

 

Seb barked out a laugh as he pulled on a shirt. “I’m sure that wasn’t what you were thinking, but I’ll thank you for it. It’s not such a big deal, chipmunk; I’ve always been really chill about most things. Besides, it’s nice to be appreciated from time to time.”

 

“Don’t girls appreciate you every single goddamn day on social media?” Sandro rolled his eyes. “Your Facebook page freaks me out; the comments section is littered with girls who want to have your babies. The objectification is _real_ , Seb. It’s super insane.”

 

“I’m sure you get your fair share of love and adoration,” Seb remarked. “You’re young, single, and easy to approach. A whole lot of teenage girls voted for your father in hopes of marrying you—I have to admit that I laughed at those tweets for an embarrassingly long time.”

 

“Well, you having a girlfriend and kids doesn’t seem to deter anyone from wanting a shot at your hand in marriage,” Sandro replied. “And oh my god I’m starting to sound like a jealous bitch, so I’m just going to shut up about all this before you like, drown me. Pardon me for bringing dishonour to my cow."

 

Seb cocked his head. “You’ve no reason to be jealous, little chipmunk. It’s you and me against the world right now.”

 

“Sebastian Duterte, First of His Name and Lord of Harmless Flirting,” Sandro sighed. “I was going to ask you if you wanted to share the bed. As I said earlier, this sofa is as gross as fuck, and I can’t imagine how you’re going to get a good night’s sleep in it. I don’t snore and I hardly ever move, so it’s super safe. I'll be fine provided there will be no inappropriate touching."

 

“You ogle me yet I can't touch you?" Seb arched an eyebrow. “Now who's being unfair? Kidding aside, I'll probably be too tired to care, anyway. And I’m sure you’re going to find a way to throw me off the building if my hands stray to unwanted territory.”

 

“Oh, you wouldn’t want to end up on my bad side, dear sir,” Sandro said with a smirk. “You’d be lucky if throwing you off is all I’d end up doing.”

 

He retreated back to bed and burrowed into the sheets again. Sandro kept his eyes trained on the wall, not even daring to move when he sensed Seb getting comfy on the opposite side. He had just openly flirted with a man—a man with a partner and two children, no less. It surprised and irritated him; all his life, he’d never really shown that much interest in any person regardless of gender before. He’d never really spent time with anyone like Seb, which wasn’t all that shocking because he wasn’t exactly Sandro’s ideal friend.

 

“Maybe it’s because he’s always so cool,” he mumbled.

 

He heard Seb chuckle. “You’re the sweetest, chipmunk. Now get some sleep—you'll need it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sandro vs Sexuality. Baste vs Morality. Tough times lie ahead, but for now, they're in Baler getting to know each other.


	5. (Sandro 5 of 6): We're Already Dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Si vis pacem, para bellum." - Vegetius
> 
> ("If you want peace, prepare for war.")

The sea, Sandro decided, had a funny smell. He liked the saltiness of the water and the crispness of the air, but not the dampness and the fishiness that came with the package. He had never really been a beach person; all beach trips were spent in resort pools or indoors hiding from the heat of the sun.

 

Then again, he had never gone on a beach trip with Seb before.

 

Seb had warned him against going out too often, but Sandro was stubborn (and easily bored), so he’d duck out to chill underneath the shade of the largest umbrella he could find whenever the beach wasn’t as populated. He’d brought his Kindle along to curb boredom, but he would find himself becoming increasingly distracted by the sight of Sebastian Duterte riding the waves. The man moved like he belonged to the water, skimming its surface like a minnow so naturally attuned to its environment. On land, he was a warrior; in water, he was a god.

 

All his life, Sandro had never really given much thought to defining his sexuality. He’d gone through the hoopla that was puberty just like everyone else. Discovering girls had gotten him interested; he’d asked one to prom, asked others out on dates, and even kissed a couple on the rare occasions he’d felt brave enough. All his experiences had been pleasant, but that was always the extent of things. He had never experienced the soul-wrenching romances or the wild sexual stirrings that the rest of his friends often talked about. His parents (and Jake the bastard) often said it was because he was still too young, but Sandro had stopped buying that explanation at some point. Pondering the facets of his seemingly complex sexuality exhausted him, so he’d junked the issue altogether. What was bothering him now was that he couldn’t put a finger on why his heart felt like it was going to burst from his chest whenever Seb would as much as look at him.

 

They had been together a few days now, and Sandro was equal parts surprised and scared that he was finding it far more pleasant than expected. Seb still didn’t talk much, but he had been warming up to Sandro, and was beginning to treat him more like a friend and less like a chore lately. Sandro had been growing quite fond of the other man as well. He found Seb to be funny, smart, and kind in his own gruff way.

 

Sebastian Duterte was also incredibly good-looking. Sandro hated how the man could make his knees buckle just by existing.

 

“Maybe I’m actually gay,” he muttered to himself. “But that doesn’t explain things. I’ve been around men all my life—good-looking ones, even. None of them have ever affected me the way Seb does, though.”

 

Frustrated, he curled up on his side and buried his face into the pillow he’d brought out with him. All this disorganised thinking was not doing him any favours.

 

“Have you been physically offended by non-living things again, chipmunk?”

 

Seb was looming over him in all his wet, tousled glory. Sandro felt like screaming at him. Or throwing something at him. He wasn’t too sure of anything at this point. Instead, he blurted out, “Oh my god, Seb. You’re like, so _wet_.”

 

Now was the perfect time for the sand to swallow him whole.

 

Seb burst out laughing. It made his pecs heave. It made Sandro want to die. “Thanks for the heads-up, Captain Obvious. Of course I’m wet, I came from the bloody sea. It’s not like you haven’t been watching me the entire time. You’re not very good at being subtle, chipmunk.”

 

“I was not!” Sandro huffed. “I was reading this thing on my Kindle! I’ll have you know it’s a very nice story!”

 

“What’s it about?” Seb plopped down next to him, reaching across Sandro’s lap for a dry towel.

 

“It’s, uh, about this boy.” Sandro was sure he was gaping like a dead fish. “He, uh, gets shepherded off to boarding school. Like, a really fun boarding school. With friends.”

 

“Sandro Marcos, did you just forget the basic plotline of Harry Potter?” Seb chuckled. “Isn’t that one of your favourite series? I remember you telling me that you’ve read all the books at least thrice over. I rest my case—you _were_ watching. Not that I mind, though.”

 

Sandro punched him in the shoulder, blushing furiously. “Shut up, Seb! I’m super embarrassed.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Seb replied with a grin. “It’s just so fun to watch you squirm, chipmunk.”

 

“You are a big bully!” Sandro said accusingly. “I take back every nice thing I’ve thought about you.”

 

“So you _do_ think of me,” Seb teased him.

 

Sandro scowled and flipped him the bird. “Fuck you.”

 

“Hey, I have an idea!” Seb suddenly scrambled back to his feet. “Come with me.”

 

“I’m staying right here where no one can see me,” Sandro replied. “Besides, aren’t you the one who told me to stay out of sight?”

 

Seb reached out and tugged him to his feet. “I thought about it. I thought about it quite a lot. But everything’s been good lately. So far, there’s been no sign of trouble.”

 

“There’s the other kind of trouble, too, you know?” Sandro reminded him. “The president-elect’s son frolicking on the shores of Baler with some boy who turns out to be the Marcos scion? The media is going to lap this up. You’re going to be the talk of the town.”

 

“Look at you looking out for me,” Seb sighed. “It’s supposed to be the other way around. But run with me for a little while, okay, Sandro? I haven’t felt this good in days.”

 

Sandro smiled. “I won’t resist, then.”

 

Seb grinned devilishly. “Good.”

 

Sandro let out an undignified squeak as Seb flung him over his shoulders like one would a sack of potatoes. He tried to wriggle free from the man’s grasp, but his efforts were rendered futile as Seb waded back into the water. “Put me down!” he shrieked, his limbs thrashing wildly in the air. “Seb, this isn’t funny!”

 

“As the little lord commands, then.”

 

Sandro screamed as he was unceremoniously tossed into the water. It was as cold as hell, and uncomfortable too given everything that he was wearing. He waited for the annoyance to seep in, but it never came. Instead, what felt like an unbearable lightness bubbled up in his chest, and he burst into loud peals of laughter.

 

Seb waded over to him and reached out to steady his shoulders. “Looks like it worked.”

 

“What did?” Sandro asked, giggles still escaping his lips as he struggled to compose himself.

 

“This …whatever it was I did,” Seb replied. The intensity of his gaze made butterflies dance in Sandro’s stomach. “You’ve been so somber, and I, uh, kinda wanted to make you laugh.”

 

Sandro felt his face redden. “I don’t know what to say, Seb.”

 

“That’s alright,” Seb said quietly. “I never know what to do when it comes to you, Sandro Marcos.”

 

Sandro was certain his heart stopped the moment Seb’s hand reached out to cup his face. “You shouldn’t,” he whispered. “We can’t.”

 

“I know.” Seb pressed their foreheads together. “I know.” 

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

  

They had parted on awkward terms after that incident. Sandro had holed up in the room while Seb had left to wander off to god-knows-where. The entire beach episode left Sandro feeling hollow; it was as if Seb had somehow stripped down his defences in an attempt to reach into the deepest part of him. He had almost succeeded, but Sandro didn’t allow him, and he didn’t force the issue in the end. The odd thing was that he’d left behind an even bigger mess. Sandro’s heart was pounding, and he couldn’t quiet it no matter how hard he tried to calm down.

 

Was this the all-encompassing feeling that he’d once longed for?

 

“Of course it had to be a man with a partner and two children,” he moaned, burrowing under the sheets for comfort. “You make the worst life decisions, Ferdinand Alexander Marcos III.”

 

Had Seb not shown any signs of reciprocating his strange feelings, he would have been fine with the way things were going. But Sandro Marcos was no idiot, and he knew what interest was when it was staring him in the face. His spine tingled at the memory of the expression on Seb’s face that afternoon—it had been a mix of adoration, disbelief, and anguish. Sandro had never been on the receiving end of such intensity in his life.

 

If only he could go home soon.

 

It would be fairly easy. Ilocos was close by, and he could stay with his grandmother until his parents felt that it was safe enough for him to return to Manila. That way, he wouldn’t have to deal with whatever this was anymore. He squeezed his eyes shut and curled up on the bed, wishing hard for sleep to come quickly.

 

He heard the sound of the door unlocking, indicating Seb’s return. Summoning the will to face him, Sandro sat up in bed, locking gazes with the other man from across the room.

 

Seb held up a bottle of scotch. “Peace offering?”

 

His speech was slurred. It was a clear indication that he’d been drinking for some time now, and an even clearer indication that Sandro should refuse. Instead, Sandro extricated himself from the sheets and sat at the foot of the bed, his back against the bedframe. “Come,” he said, patting the floor space next to him.

 

“Hope you don’t mind chugging from the bottle,” said Seb as he moved to join Sandro. “This was all that was left from what I was drinking earlier, and I didn’t think to bring a glass.”

 

“It’s fine,” replied Sandro, reaching out to take the bottle from him. He uncapped it and took a swig, ignoring the bitter burn of the liquid flowing down his throat. “I hate scotch.”

 

Seb chuckled. “So do I. They ran outta beer on tap, which I thought was fucking dumb. But because I wanted to drink some more, I grabbed this and snuck it up.”

 

“You have to pay your friend before we leave,” Sandro pointed out. “But I’m glad you nicked this, I think we both need something that’ll help us be braver for the talk we’re about to have.”

 

“My daughter—her name’s Yulia—came into this world when I was young, stupid, and didn’t know shit.” Seb took the bottle from Sandro to take a swig of his own. “I don’t regret it, though; she’s the most wonderful little thing in the world—five years old, cute as a button, and smart as fuck. My son—Yair, he’s two—is, well, loud. He cries a lot, but that’s fine. It’s still a bit too early to tell since he’s basically just a baby right now. I, uh, live with his mother, who’s a long-time surfing buddy of mine.”

 

Sandro hummed. “The mother bit sounds so non-committal, Seb. You can talk to me about her; it’s okay.”

 

“I’ve been wanting to,” Seb said, sounding pained. “I’ve wanted to tell you about them so many times, but I couldn’t seem to find the words. Or the courage.”

 

“I understand,” Sandro said softly. “I have a hard time talking to people about my family, too. Even if I think they’re wonderful people, many who’ve suffered because of my grandparents’ actions don’t, and I have to live with that because a lot of terrible things happen. It’s always going to be a part of me, and I don’t think I can ever walk away from it.”

 

“We stay quiet because we don’t want to hurt people,” Seb sighed. “In this case, no matter what I do, I’m going to end up hurting someone I care about. Fucking hell.”

 

“I don’t understand,” Sandro remarked. “What is it you aren’t telling me, Seb?”

 

“You move me, Sandro,” Seb replied bluntly. “You move me in ways that no one has ever been able to before. This little holiday of some sort has made me feel like a new person—that I could be a better version of myself. That being around _you_ could make me better, somehow.”

 

“Oh gosh, you really do need to ply yourself with alcohol before you make confessions,” Sandro murmured. “In less sentimental language, you have an effect on me, too, Seb. I’ve always had trouble trying to come to terms with my sexual identity. I’ve been feeling super overwhelmed because the answers have suddenly come to me on a silver platter, and I have no one to blame but you and my stupid heart. I’m interested in you—as in super—but I don’t want to act on it because I don’t want you to make a mess out of the life you’ve built for yourself.”

 

Seb turned to face him. “Keep talking like that, and I’ll end up throwing what little restraint is left in me to the devil. You’re something else, Sandro Marcos. I look at you and I can’t help but think that you are the most beautiful person that I’m ever going to come across in this lifetime.”

 

Sandro swallowed. He wasn’t sure how much more of this he could take. He downed as much of the scotch as he could, stopping only when he began to cough. Seb immediately came to his aid, pulling him close, running a soothing hand down his back until his coughing fit subsided.

 

“You’re going to be the death of me, chipmunk,” he said softly. 

 

Emboldened by the alcohol, Sandro rose up on his knees and pressed his forehead to Seb's. “We’re already dead,” he whispered.

 

Seb threaded a hand through his hair, coming to rest at the base of his skull, where he'd gripped tight. “I’m giving you one last chance to run, chipmunk,” he growled. “I can’t stand having you here with me and not knowing how it feels to be with you. _Please_.”    

 

“I’m not going anywhere, Seb,” Sandro murmured against the other man's lips. “At this point, I couldn’t leave you even if I tried.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have this theory that when soulmates come into contact, the walls just come crumbling down, and everything else comes to a grinding halt. 
> 
>  
> 
> Until the next chapter. ;)


	6. (Sandro 6 of 6): They're Going to Pay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Transit umbra, lux permanet."
> 
> ("Shadow passes, light remains.")

The next morning found Sandro curled on the floor, his head pillowed on Seb’s shoulder, the empty bottle of scotch a remnant of last night’s very strange conversation. They hadn’t gotten past the almost-kiss; they’d sort of slumped against each other instead, basking in the silence of the night until they drifted off into an uneasy sleep. Sandro had slept so fitfully that he’d woken up a few times, always wondering if he’d dreamt everything up somehow. But Seb had always been there next to him, and the sight would calm him down a bit. Sandro often found himself drifting closer; there was something about Seb that quieted his unease, and he sought him out like a drowned man would the shore.

 

Sandro liked him, that was certain. To what extent? That was something he still felt too afraid to know and too reluctant to explore.

 

He extricated himself from the other man’s loose hold, and moved to toss the bottle in the trash. The sight of Seb’s sleeping form made him giggle a little; it was hilarious how graceful he was in the water, but looked like a beached whale when asleep. Taking pity on the poor fellow, he crouched down in an attempt to shake him awake. “Seb, why don’t you move to the bed? It’s really uncomfortable there on the floor.”

 

Seb cracked one eye open. “What time is it, chipmunk? You should still be asleep.”

 

“Normally, I would be, but the floor is not a fun place,” Sandro replied. “Now, up we go.”

 

Seb did as he was told. Sandro crawled in next to him, drawing the covers up to his chin in the process. He squeaked indignantly when Seb reached out to flick him on the nose.

 

“You’re pouting, chipmunk,” he teased. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

 

“I am not pouting!” Sandro said hotly. “It’s just cold, that’s all.”

 

“You could have just told me you wanted to cuddle,” Seb grunted. He moved closer to envelop Sandro in his arms. “We shouldn’t have to keep playing guessing games with each other, chipmunk. Not when, uh, we’ve reached an agreement that all this is okay.”

 

Sandro wrinkled his nose. “Why do you have to make things so complicated all the time? You didn’t even kiss me last night—I was waiting, you know.”

 

“I wanted to give you something better to remember,” Seb sighed. “I fucked around a lot when I was younger, and things would always end up in shambles. A lot of stupid decisions were made under the influence of alcohol; I don’t want you to be roped up in my toxicity. You deserve better, Sandro.”

 

Annoyed, Sandro dragged himself up so he could look Seb in the eye. “Am I not the only person who gets to decide what is good enough for me? I’ve met so many people, Seb, but never anyone who has affected me as strongly as you do. And I know you feel the same—you said you didn’t want to miss this chance.”

 

Seb looked pained. “I don’t. But my background is shady at best, and dragging you into my mess would be the worst thing that I could ever do to you.”

 

“Tell me, then,” Sandro demanded. “What are you running away from?”

 

“Okay, I’ll talk. But come here.”

 

Sandro went all too willingly. He rested his head in the crook of Seb’s neck. “I’m listening.”

 

“My father sent me to Manila to clean up my act when he got sick and tired of all the trouble I was getting into,” Seb explained. “It was the first time that I’d been left on my own, and being the shithead that I was, I found myself living the high life brought on by my newfound independence. I was a bit of a daredevil, too; I hung out with the shadiest of the shady. Once, I was dared to pickpocket someone. Being the idiot that I was, I went right ahead and did it. The guy I pickpocketed was one of top guns in an anti-crime gang that patrolled the streets of Manila. I was screwed; I thought they were going to beat me to death. But when the leader found out who my dad was, he decided to take me in instead and train me. This is why I act like I know what I’m doing—this is why I was asked to look after you.”

 

“Jesus Christ, Seb,” Sandro murmured. “This is a plot straight out of an action film or something. I’m sure it was really hard for you having to live like that.”

 

“It was,” Seb agreed. “I took a lot of beatings—had to prove myself worthy, y’know? Dad was adamant about it as well. He allowed me not to follow in his footsteps to do my own thing provided I know how to look out for myself. I never actually thought I’d get to apply what I learnt, though. Everything was hunky dory in Davao by the time I got home, so it was back to the junk shop and the beaches for me. You’re more or less my first mission, chipmunk.”

 

Sandro smiled. “Well, I think you’re doing a pretty swell job. I’ve felt very safe this whole time.”

 

“I still don’t know if we should be getting this cosy, though,” Seb sighed. “I’m going to be a dick and say that it’s not you—it’s me. I carry a lot of baggage with me, and I don’t want to weigh you down with it.”

 

“Again, that’s for me to decide,” Sandro insisted. “But I don’t want to worry about that now. We’re at this beautiful beach, and we have some time to ourselves. We should enjoy this while we can, and question our life decisions later on.”

 

“I knew you liked watching holiday romances for a reason,” Seb teased him. “Alright, I’ll chill out for a little while. Maybe I can even teach you a thing or two about surfing.”

 

Sandro elbowed him in the ribs. “Absolutely not. I refuse to be an offering to the Drowned God!”

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

  

Though there was much to be seen and done in Baler, Sandro liked their daily routines the most. He liked watching Seb surf from the safety of the shore, blushing furiously each time the other would resurface from the water and press a kiss to his forehead. Other than that, and cuddling in bed at night, they hardly ever got into much physical contact. It frustrated Sandro; he was beginning to discover things about himself, and what he could like when it came to sexual interaction. Being dwarfed was a plus—he liked that Seb was bigger than he was in every which way (he always had to school his thoughts; numerous trips to the bathroom couldn’t go unnoticed for too long). He liked being teased as well, though too much of it sent him over the edge and made him want to throw the nearest object at Seb’s face.

 

It wasn’t hard to pinpoint what he liked about Seb. Sandro felt that he could be himself with the man. Seb understood what it was like to be a controversial politician’s son, which was more than Sandro could ever ask for. He loved his father, but being a Marcos really sucked sometimes. When his mum had first explained matters to him, his father had been unable to look him in the eye. Then a child, he’d been unable to make sense of it all—how was it that the grandfather he’d been told so much great things about was the same person who had caused so much pain for others? Many had tried to sugarcoat the stories for his sake. Even his schoolteachers had glossed over the negative impact of Martial Law to make the classroom environment a more comfortable place for him. Sandro had not been able to piece the puzzle together until he’d decided to do some research of his own. To date, he was still struggling to reconcile what he had been taught with the reality that his books had failed to record. He’d brought it up with Seb a few times. The latter often chose to say nothing, but his gaze was always be sympathetic. It went without saying that Sebastian Duterte knew exactly how Sandro felt. He’d grown up with The Punisher as his father, after all.

 

What Sandro really wanted was to be able to do something nice for Seb. The man had agreed to take time out to look after him for Christ’s sake—it would be awful of him not to return the favour somehow. He lamented the lack of options at the present; he would have been able to purchase or even make something had they been elsewhere. Even if he had malls and people at his disposal here, he couldn’t stray too far on his own.

 

Annoyed, he stood up and stripped down to his swim trunks. The water was as cold as hell and he’d forgotten to put sunblock on, but he made his way to Seb, who was wading towards the shallows with his board in tow. The latter had stopped in his tracks, looking puzzled at the very sight of Sandro in the water.

 

“What the hell’s going on?” he yelled. “Don’t go out too far—I’ll come get you!”

 

“I’ll be just fine!” Sandro hollered back. “I know how to swim.”

 

“Just—just don’t move, okay?”

 

Sandro did as he was told. This was stupid—his teeth were chattering and he had goosebumps all over. He had to stick with this, though; he’d gone as far as to wade into the sea, and it would be stupid to turn back now.

 

“Did something happen?” Seb asked, his brows knitting together in concern. “You look a little freaked out.”

 

Sandro bit his lip. “…please don’t kill me.”

 

He pushed himself up to his tiptoes and threaded his fingers through Seb’s hair, planting a quick kiss on the other’s lips. He pulled away quickly, his cheeks burning with what felt like the fire of a thousand suns.

 

“I just wanted to say thank you,” he babbled. “You’ve been looking after me all this time, and I’ve never really gotten around to thanking you properly. I don’t have anything with me right now, so this is all I can give. It’s, uh, not my first kiss—threw that away, unfortunately. I don’t like kissing very much—I find swapping saliva with someone else super weird and gross—so means a lot to me. Like, _super_.”

 

“Sandro—”

 

“I really wish I could give you something more meaningful but—”

 

“Chipmunk—”

 

“Resources here are limited, and it’s not like I—”

 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

 

Sandro squeaked as Seb tilted his chin up and pressed their lips together. “Calm down, chipmunk,” the other murmured. “Let me show you what a real kiss is like. It’s time to put those silly little high school and college pecks to shame.”

 

“Wh-what should I do?”

 

“Hush. I’ll take care of you.”

 

Sandro sighed softly when their lips came into contact again. Kissing a boy—a man, no less—was very different from kissing a girl. Seb’s lips were rough, and his moustache tickled Sandro’s skin. He was clearly trying his best to make things nice and easy for Sandro; he would change things up with a nip and a lick here and there, which caused Sandro to tremble a little.

 

“You okay?” Seb asked, reaching out to cradle his cheeks.

 

“I am,” Sandro whispered. He tipped his head forward in a gesture that he hoped looked like an invitation. “More? Pretty please, with a cherry on top?”

 

Seb smiled. “You don’t even have to ask.”

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

  

They’d hardly been able to keep their hands off each other after that. Of the many times Sandro’s father had walked in on Simon and Vincent kissing their girlfriends, he often said—and always with a rueful shake of his head—that they were attached at the mouth. Sandro would echo the elder Marcos’ sentiments; much like Bongbong, he was reserved with his affection and was hardly ever demonstrative.

 

He giggled at the thought, which caused Seb to nip at his lip to shut him up. “What’re you laughing about, chipmunk? I should be offended—something’s distracting you from making out with me.”

 

“I just find all this super amusing because I’m not the type to get intimate,” Sandro admitted. “I usually step away from people after a few seconds of skin-to-skin contact because it gets bothersome.”

 

“And yet here you are, lying underneath me on the shores of Baler,” Seb said with a roguish grin. “It’s past sundown, and you’ve been giggling in my face for god-knows-how-long now without showing any signs of wanting to flee. Do I get to feel special?”

 

“Ugh, you’re so full of yourself.” Sandro rolled his eyes and swatted at Seb’s face. “But yeah, you’ve probably earned some bragging rights because I have never really put myself out of my comfort zone to make out with anyone before."

 

“We should head back inside,” Seb said. He pushed himself off of Sandro and began collecting his things. “It’s getting really cold out here, and we’re in nothing but shirts and shorts.”

 

“We would have been wearing a lot less had you not insisted on me getting dressed,” Sandro pointed out, stuffing his own belongings back into his bag. “Usually, people are itching to get their conquests unclothed, not the other way around.”

 

“My self-control has its limits,” Seb replied cheekily. “Never waltz out of the bathroom in just a towel if you don’t want me to do things to you, chipmunk.”

 

“Well, thanks for the Cosmo tip,” Sandro teased him. “And just so you know, I’m going to keep this in mind.”

 

As much as he wanted to, he didn’t reach for Seb’s hand for the walk back to the inn. Making out like teenagers was one thing, and holding hands was a prelude to something more emotional altogether.

 

“I get first dibs on the shower,” he chirped as they approached their room. “I’m starting to itch everywhere, and it’s getting really uncomfortable. I promise I won’t take forever.”

 

Seb cocked his head. “Save water by showering with a partner? It’ll help the environment.”

 

“If you’re a good boy, perhaps eventually.” Sandro slid the key into the lock. “But for now—”

 

His words died in his throat at the sight of their room, which had obviously been ransacked. Somehow, someone had found out where they were.

 

“Stay behind me, Sandro,” Seb said. He strode across the room and reached behind a framed photo of a landscape to reveal a gun. “Whoever it was that did this, they didn’t manage to uncover all my secrets.”

 

Sandro fell into step behind Seb, his heart threatening to burst out from his chest. Each time Seb as so much as threw open a cabinet door or peered under an elevated surface to check for intruders, he would pretty much freeze in place out of terror. Fortunately, the room wasn’t very large, and it didn’t take too long for Seb to finish his sweep.

 

“This shouldn’t have happened,” he said through clenched teeth. “Come with me—I have to bring this up with my colleague. Someone must have said something.”

 

They made their way back to the front office, where a heavyset man—Sandro assumed he was Seb’s contact—was seated behind his desk. “Took you long enough to come running to me for help, little brother.”

 

“I’m not here for pleasantries, Pulong,” Seb said curtly. “Someone knows I brought Sandro here. We returned to the room to find it ransacked.”

 

“Jesus Christ,” Paolo Duterte muttered. “And here I thought I could have a bit of a holiday while checking in with you on your first assignment. Neither of you are hurt?”

 

“My chipm—Sandro here is in shock, but he’ll be alright,” Seb replied. “We were both at the beach when this happened. Whoever it was, they did a very good job of keeping the noise to a minimum.”

 

“You two should leave,” Paolo said. “Get the young Marcos to another safe house. Don’t worry about cleaning up, Baste—I’ll get someone on the job.” He turned to Sandro, who suddenly felt unnerved by the attention. “You sure you’re okay?”

 

“I’m fine, Vice Mayor Duterte.” Sandro cleared his throat, stepping forward to extend a hand in greeting. “Ferdinand Alexander Marcos III, but everyone calls me Sandro. I wish I could say it was nice to meet you.”

 

Paolo shook his hand. “You’re Bongbong’s kid through and through, that’s for sure. Normally, I’d be happy to linger and chat, but you two are in deep water right now.”

 

“Thanks, Pulong,” Seb sighed. “I’ll see you at home?”

 

“Always. Now, go.”

 

Sandro and Seb made their way back to the parking lot in silence. As Seb busied himself with unlocking the car doors, Sandro found himself staring at the foliage, sensing movement. Puzzled, he moved closer to the source, intent on investigating. “Seb, I think there’s someone here—”

 

“Sandro, get down!”

 

The warning came too late. Sandro could only stare at the red stain that was rapidly blossoming on his shirt. He slumped to the ground, gasping for breath as the searing pain in his side threatened to knock him out. Around him, the world was in chaos—the Duterte brothers’ angry voices mingled with the sound of more gunshots.

 

“Seb…” he managed to rasp out. “I think …I think I’ve been shot.”

 

“They’re going to pay, chipmunk,” Seb said fiercely, clutching Sandro to his chest. “I’m going to find whoever’s behind all this. Someone's going to get hurt, and it's not going to be you again.”  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once more, a gunshot. The game has changed, and someone's bound to pay the Iron Price.


	7. (Baste 1 of 6): Like Lovesick Fools

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Forsan miseros meliora sequentur." - Virgil 
> 
> ("For those in misery, perhaps better things will follow.")

He’d been taught how to stitch flesh wounds as part of his training, but Baste had never really had to put theory into actual practice before. Common sense dictated that Sandro be brought to a hospital as soon as possible. The best bet would be to take him to the closest one, but it would be a risky move that would attract far more attention than they already had. Sandro had been drifting in and out of consciousness; he’d fallen into an uneasy sleep, which terrified Baste. All those medical dramas Kate watched often had paramedics urging the injured to stay awake. He had never been much of a TV fan, so he’d never really paid attention to the handful of episodes he’d managed to sit down for. Instead, he’d gone with his instinct—and what little he knew based on action films—and created a makeshift bandage using an old t-shirt, keeping the pressure on while his brother gave chase. Pulong had failed; he’d elected to telephone their father in hopes of remedying the situation. Baste had no doubt that his firebrand of a father would find some way to punish him when he returned home to Davao.

 

Sandro’s well-being took precedence, of course, and he was getting tired of the shouting match Pulong and Digong were having over the phone.

 

“I can’t wait, Pulong. And neither can Sandro. Give me the fucking phone.”

 

Baste snatched the phone from his brother’s hand and tapped the speaker option, interrupting his father’s angry tirade. “Dad, it’s Baste. I put you on speaker.”

 

The president-elect fell silent on the other end of the line. Under normal circumstances, Baste would have run for the hills; Rodrigo Duterte’s stone-cold silence was far more dangerous than his word-fueled rage.

 

“…I can’t even put into words everything I want to say to you right now, Sebastian Duterte. Saying that I am angry and disappointed is an understatement. Saying that Bongbong Marcos is furious is also an understatement. You failed, Sebastian.”

 

“I know,” Baste replied. “And you—and Sandro’s entire family—have all the right to want to tear me limb from limb. But that’s not important right now. He needs urgent medical attention, Dad.”

 

“Right,” Digong said gruffly. “I called Bongbong after I spoke to your brother the first time. He wants the boy airlifted to Ilocos; he’ll be given proper medical care there. Imee Marcos is on her way in a private chopper—you need to get to the airport as soon as you can.”  

 

“Good. I’ll leave now, then.”

 

Digong cleared his throat. “One more thing, Baste.”

 

“Yes, Dad?”

 

“Bongbong says that once you make contact with Imee, your job is done. You’re to go home to Davao with Paolo. Do you understand?”

 

“…yeah,” Baste replied hoarsely. “I understand.”

 

He ended the call abruptly, and handed the phone back to his brother. “Sorry for the blood. I’ll replace it when we get back. You good to drive? I’d like to have my hands free to attend to Sandro.”

 

“Yeah, I’ll drive,” Pulong replied. “Listen, Baste—”

 

“Not now, Pulong.” Baste tightened his grip on Sandro. “If you want to yell at me, you’re free to go at it as soon as we get Sandro to his aunt.”

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Pulong had made quick work of the nearly empty roads, which Baste was more than grateful for. The Marcoses had, of course, made arrangements with airport officials to have the brothers escorted directly to the chopper’s location. Despite numerous offers of assistance, Baste had refused to relinquish his hold on Sandro until the paramedics arrived with the stretcher, which has earned a puzzled glance from his brother.

 

“We can take it from here, Mr. Duterte,” one of the paramedics said solicitously. “Governor Marcos will be arriving with the chopper soon.”

 

“I’ll stay with him until she arrives,” Baste replied. “I won’t interfere with what it is you’re doing; I want him to be able to see a familiar face just in case he wakes up again.”

 

“Then sit the hell down and let them do their job, Baste,” Pulong remarked. “Besides, I’ve been wanting to have a proper conversation with you.”

 

Though reluctantly, Baste followed his brother to the bench in the corner. The waiting room was small, and he had doubts that their conversation would go unheard in its entirety.

 

“What is it, Pulong?” he asked. “You’ve been shooting me strange looks all night.”

 

“I’ve known you all your life, little brother,” Pulong said quietly. “You’ve always been so careful when it comes to forging relationships with people—asking you to befriend someone is like having to sit through a tooth extraction. I understand this is a job, but you seem to be going above and beyond the call of duty for this kid.”

 

“He was _shot_ , man,” Baste scowled. “What more do you want me to say?”

 

Pulong sighed. “I don’t know …that you feel something for him, perhaps?”

 

“…I’m that obvious, huh?”

 

“Jesus Christ, Baste!” Pulong hissed. “You have a partner and a son at home, for crying out loud. Don’t tell me that it only took a couple of weeks with this kid to get you to love him!”

 

“You think that doesn’t weigh on my conscience?” Baste glared at him. “I’ve been wondering that myself this whole time. You of all people should know that matters of the heart aren’t always fair. I didn’t go into this with the intent of feeling something for my ward. But I did, anyway. And now he’s hurt badly, and I want to kill whoever did this to him.”

 

“Well, that’s one similarity you and his father share at the moment, Sebastian.”

 

Imee Marcos strode into the room, nodding in greeting at the Duterte brothers before moving to check on Sandro. Baste had heard many stories about her; people often said that she was very much like her father. Though the governor of Ilocos was far more talkative and sometimes, a bit less logical, her way of speaking mirrored that of the late Ferdinand E Marcos. After speaking briefly with the medical team, she crossed the room to shake hands with the brothers.

 

“I want to thank you both for your efforts,” she said. “They’ll have to operate on my nephew in Ilocos to get the bullet out, but the emergency responders said things are looking good at the moment. Regardless of how my brother feels about this, you have been a big help in looking out for Sandro—especially you, Sebastian.”

 

Baste arched an eyebrow. “You’re not angry with me?”

 

“Why would I be?” Imee shot him a funny look. “In my opinion, things could have gotten worse if Bong and Liza didn’t think to ask your family for help. Also, Bong can be an idiot, sometimes—he has a hard time letting go of things. Give him a few weeks; he’ll probably stop being such a sourpuss.”

 

“Thank you as well for coming to the rescue, Governor,” Pulong added. “My dad extends his greetings and offers of continued assistance, should you still require it.”

 

“Oh, just call me Imee,” said the lady. “’Governor’ makes me feel like I’m a stranger to you when I shouldn’t be. And you boys should head on home as well; we’re due to leave very soon.”

 

Baste cleared his throat. “I’d like to escort Sandro to the chopper, if that’s alright.”

 

“I don’t see why not,” Imee said. “Besides, I think my mum would like to see you—she offered to join me when I woke her up to tell her about what happened.”

 

Baste followed her out into the night, his gaze trained on the rise and fall of Sandro’s chest. It was reassuring to know that he was alive, and that he would live. He almost wished that he could fly with the Marcoses to Ilocos, but that would be a stupid request to make. Besides, he had to go home to face the music.

 

“Could you wait here for a bit?” Imee asked him. “I’ll tell Mum you’re here; she may want to talk to you before the propellers start whirring and you can’t hear shit.”

 

“Of course.”

 

Mere moments after Imee poked her head into the chopper to (presumably) announce him to her mother, the always impeccable Imelda Marcos alighted from the aircraft, still dressed to the nines. Baste’s father often joked that the Steel Butterfly had come out of her mother’s womb looking like a queen. As a child, Baste had believed him—it was always difficult to imagine Imelda Marcos looking otherwise. She was as elegant as she was beautiful, though, even in her later years. He could see where Sandro had inherited his dainty features.

 

“Good morning, Madam,” he greeted her, unsure of what to say. “I’m sorry you had to endure what may have been an uncomfortable chopper ride at this unholy hour.”

 

“I’ve suffered far worse, Sebastian,” the stately woman said dryly. “You of all people should know very well what it is I’m referring to.”

 

Baste found himself at a loss for words. It was quite embarrassing.

 

“I simply wanted to thank you for getting Alexander to us safely,” she continued. “I’m sure Imee has told you this already, but pay Bongbong no heed; he can be quite foolish when he’s emotional. Please tell your father not to be too hard on you as well—I’ll write him a nice letter reminding him to be good to his son.”

 

“That’s very kind of you, Madam,” Baste said politely. “Please extend my well-wishes to Sandro as well when he wakes up. Should he ask for me, I had to go home to clean up my own mess—to have him think I ditched him is the last thing I’d want right now.”

 

“Knowing that boy, he’ll call you himself. It was lovely meeting you, Sebastian. I had always hoped that I would meet you under more pleasant circumstances—but that’s what we all wish for, isn’t it?”  

 

“Likewise, Madam,” Baste replied. “It’s good to know where Sandro gets all his grace—not to mention his beauty—from.”

 

The Steel Butterfly preened. “He’s a gem of a Romualdez, isn’t he? There’s a bit of Marcos in him, of course—he’s petite, my little darling—but his face and his temper are from my side of the family.”

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Baste had slept fitfully on the flight back home. His brother had tried to get him to talk, but eventually gave up when he realised that Baste wouldn’t answer any of his questions. He’d decided against returning home to Kate and Yair that morning as well, opting instead to speak to his father in hopes of clearing his mind. Digong, of course, was still asleep, so Baste had let himself in with the spare key, showered to get rid of all the blood, and helped himself to some coffee in the meantime. The silence was oddly deafening; he’d grown so used to having Sandro talk his ear off in that adorable mix of English, Ilocano, and broken Tagalog. Once upon a time, he could have sworn on his life that he wouldn’t be able to put up with the brat and all his whining. Now, he missed him greatly.

 

“You’re an idiot, Baste,” he sighed.

 

“It’s good to know you realise that, son.”

 

Digong walked into the kitchen, helping himself to his own cup of coffee. He sat across from his son at the breakfast table, patiently waiting for Baste to initiate conversation. When it was obvious that Baste would remain tight-lipped until prodded, the president-elect brought it upon himself to take the reins.

 

“You were careless, Sebastian. Did it not occur to you that someone would eventually take photos of you and Sandro acting like lovesick fools on the shores of Baler? We were able to contain it by approaching the poster to take it down, but many have seen it and saved it to their devices.”

 

Baste sighed. “Was this why Pulong magically appeared in Baler? I didn’t bring my real phone along, so no one would have been able to contact me.”

 

“You’re good at staying off the radar, but a dimwit on the rare occasions your emotions get in the way,” Digong chastised him. “When your brother told me what happened, I was very angry at first. I was certain I was going to hit you by the time you arrived home, but then I remembered something, and I changed my mind.”

 

“What’re you talking about?”

 

“My father once told me that we Dutertes have soft spots for the Marcoses,” Digong said quietly. “He was a member of Ferdinand E Marcos’ cabinet, and remained loyal despite the man’s many faults. When I asked why, he said that there’s something about the Marcoses that clouds our better judgment. He couldn’t really explain it, and neither can I. This is why I haven’t asked you to explain yourself.”

 

“Is this why you look out for Bongbong despite the stupidity of your argument?” Baste asked. “Each time you’re faulted for being so accommodating towards him, you say it’s because you are good friends, and that you don’t want to hurt his feelings. It left me so confused.”

 

Digong had the grace to look the teensiest bit embarrassed. “You could say that. I daresay you could say the same of your attitude towards the son, whom you seem to care a great deal for.”

 

“Sandro’s different,” Baste remarked. “He’s spoiled, arrogant, and sometimes foolish, but he has his heart in the right place. He’s a sweet kid, and he always means what he says.”

 

“And being with him allowed you to forget that you have someone here waiting for you.”

 

“I thought you weren’t going to grill me about this.”

 

“I’m not,” Digong said firmly. “What I want you to do is to sit on this and think—really think—about what it that you truly want. I won’t pretend I fully understand the extent of your feelings for Bongbong’s son, but there’s no use in you telling me that there’s nothing between you. I saw the photos, Baste. I don’t remember the last time I saw you that happy.”

 

“I _am_ happy, Dad,” Baste insisted. “I’m doing what I like, I’m with a girl I love, and I have two kids I would give the world for. What I don’t understand is that it doesn’t feel enough. Meeting Sandro unlocked this part of me that really wants to have him in my life. With him, I felt like I could somehow become a better person—a better version of myself, if that’s possible.”

 

“You need to give yourself some time, Baste,” Digong said. “Go back to the way things were, and try not to think about Sandro Marcos first. If the dust settles, then that’s good. But if you find yourself itching for another life, then it’s up to you if you want to do something about it. I don’t want you running to me if you end up living a life that makes you so unhappy you’d want to kill yourself.”

 

“Thanks, Dad,” Baste replied, feeling grateful. “This really puts a lot of things into perspective for me. I’ll try my best to chill out for awhile. Maybe things will go back to normal.”

 

Digong shrugged. “Or something will come and fuck it all up again. Who knows?”  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From here on out, we're going to see the events unfold through the eyes of Baste, who is obviously going through plenty of emotional turmoil. Is he simply going to go back to his old life? Or does fate have much more in store for him and Sandro? Find out in the next bit. ;)
> 
> Since the next half will be in his POV, you'll notice that names of people will change. Sandro is obviously more formal when it comes to addressing everyone, especially people he isn't close to. Baste is more chill about it. (Also, only Sandro calls him Seb. Teehee.)


End file.
